Below
by Lennelle
Summary: Sam's there one second, then he's pulled down so fast there's barely a ripple in his wake.
1. The Lake

I'm trying to write my way out of the writing slump that's keeping me from finishing WIPs. While you wait for the next chapter of *insert unfinished story by lennelle here* please enjoy this in the meantime.

* * *

Sam is nearly thirteen and a half when something is lurking in the depths of a lake outside of a small town in South Dakota. The lake is wide and still, the surface a barely rippling blackness, and there's nothing but the gentle rustle of trees and the chirp of crickets as Dad pushes the boat away from the shore. Dean rows, Dad aims his rifle, Sam leans over the edge, the flashlight in his hand barely puncturing the murky depths. It's freezing this late in October and there's a gentle mist blanketing the water.

"See anything?" Dad asks, and Dean can see Sam's lips thinning.

"I can't see," Sam says, frowning at his dad's back. "There's a fog coming in."

John pointedly ignores him. Sam folds his arms across his chest and stares down at the water. Dean watches like a bystander watching an oncoming car crash, he knows the damage that's about to be done and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He's been playing mediator for a couple of years now, since Sam turned eleven and decided he hated everything their dad said or did. He's getting tired of being stuck in the middle.

"I've got a biology test tomorrow," Sam mutters, and judging by the way Dad's shoulders stiffen he must have heard it, too.

"Three people have died already," John says.

"I know, but - "

"But what?" Dad asks, finally turning around to face Sam. "What could possibly be more important?"

Dean watches quietly, breath catching the cold air in a whirl of smoke. It's quiet for a moment, but it seems that even Sam knows when to surrender, at least for now. "Nothing, sir," he grumbles, leaning back over the edge of the boat, tracing the torch's line of light across the lake's surface. The silence that follows might just be worse than raised voices and harsh words.

They're sitting there on the sleepy waters until the sun is just a speck peaking over the horizon. There are no birds paddling on the lake surface, not even a fly buzzing across.

Dad sighs and says, "Let's head back to shore. We'll come back in the morning."

Beside him, Dean hears Sam's soft breath of relief. The moon is already high in the sky, gloomy white among the pinpricks of stars, casting everything in its soft glow. The boat rocks the three of them gently, water licking the sides of the boat. It's peaceful, despite the tension between John and Sam, more so than any of them are used to.

When Dean grabs the oars, one is stuck firmly like the water is dried cement. It's yanked so hard and sudden out of his grip that he's nearly plunged into the impossibly black lake along with it. There's barely a ripple, just the smooth surface, wet and black like oil. Dad cocks his gun and Dean reaches to grab a hold of Sam's jacket. He barely has a chance to grip onto him before the boat is jerked, then tipped, and all three of them are plunged into the freezing waters. Dean is dazed for a moment, floating there in the darkness, so dark that he wouldn't know the sky from the bottom of the lake if it weren't for the rush of bubbles rising upward.

He kicks to the surface, heart pounding with the shock of the cold, and he spits out a mouthful of muddy water. Dad is there, treading water and spitting mud about a meter away, but Dean can't see Sam.

"Sammy!" his voice is choked off by the chill that envelopes him. His hands and feet are completely numb and he can barely get a breath in, but it doesn't stop him from thrashing around like a hooked fish, heart rate rising the longer Sam is out of his sight. Any lesson his dad ever taught him about keeping calm under pressure has drifted from his head like a balloon cut from its string.

There's a small, wet cough behind him and Dean spins to find Sam a few feet away, swimming gingerly towards them, whiter than milk and shivering like a leaf in the wind, but unhurt. That's what's important.

"That's it," Dean says, teeth chattering under a numb smile. He kicks and pushes himself forward. "Keep coming, Sammy. I'll meet you halfway, okay? You okay?"

Sam shudders as he paddles, turning a little pale in his lips, but he nods miserably nonetheless. Dean can hear the heavy splashes of Dad on his tail. He's an arm's reach from grabbing his brother. Sam's there one second, then he's pulled down so fast there's barely a ripple in his wake.

Dean doesn't think, he dives. It's blacker than black under the water, he kicks his legs hard, no clue whether he's going down or up, arms spread wide. He catches something thin and slimy between his fingers, just a handful of lake weed. He breaths out half a lungful of air and lets himself drift upwards. He hits the surface with his mouth open wide, air filling his chest again. Just then, Dad's head breaks the water with a heavy gulp.

His eyes widen when he sees that Sam isn't with Dean, then he's flipping himself back downwards with a heavy spray of water kicked up by his feet.

Dean dives down one more time and comes up with nothing but a mouthful of muddy water and a rising terror in his heart. He doesn't know how long it's been, but it's longer than anyone, especially a thirteen year old kid, would be able to hold their breath. He's growing sluggish, he can feel the exhaustion in his limbs, knows he won't be able to keep it up much longer, but he doesn't have a choice.

"Dean," Dad gasps, trying to keep his head above water.

Dean dives back under. Down, down down. His chest aches, begs for more air, but Dean keeps swimming. He reaches out, fingers trailing the jagged rocks on the lake bed. It's becoming unbearable, the tightness in his lungs. He's beginning to suffocate, he should head back for air, but Dean knows that if he doesn't find Sam now, he never will.

He grasps, finds nothing but fistfuls of water, scrapes his fingertips on rocks, startles a fish or two. His chest feels like it might cave in, he's getting heavier, feet dragging in the muddy floor of the lake. He reaches out and finds something soft, drifting like weeds in the flow of the water. Hair. He reaches out and finds cold skin and a set of fingers, then a nose and a mouth. Dean grips a hold of whatever he can and kicks upwards.

The extra weight pulls him down, but Dean's legs fight the water as hard as they can. His lungs are screaming, his mouth is tempted to open and suck in the water. He holds Sam tight, still kicking, but slower and slower as his muscles strain and give up on him.

Something grabs the collar of his jacket and yanks him upwards. He meets the the surface, the cold air stinging his wet cheeks as he coughs up a dribble of water. He can see a little under the moonlight, can see Sam's pale blue face where it drops boneless against his shoulder. The two of them drift along. Dean blinks wearily and finds Dad, a firm fist still in Dean's jacket as he drags them both to the shore.

Sam is still and pale on the beach, wet sand sticks to his hair and turns it white. He looks like he's - but no. He can't be.

Dad has his hands pressed together, fingers linked, as he presses down on Sam's chest with rib-cracking strength. Sam's head wobbles a little with the impact, but his eyes don't open, he doesn't open his mouth and breathe. Dean is so full of weariness, he doesn't think his own legs could hold him up, he crawls across the sand and speaks, breathless and wheezing, into Sam's ear.

"Don't you dare."

Because Sam always takes Dean's threats seriously. If Dean says Sam can't die, Sam won't.

"Come on, Sam!" Dad barks, pounding and pounding his fists, trying to beat Sam back to life.

The strange thing is, Dean never sees his dad cry. Dad doesn't let him. Right now, there are salty tears rolling down Dad's cheeks and his chest is heaving with aching sobs. He's slowing down... but he can't. Sammy will die if he stops.

"Dad," Dean says, and his voice is unexpectedly hoarse. "Dad, stop crying. Sam's fine. He's going to be fine, just keep going. Dad!"

Dad stops, hands uncurling, fingers splaying out over Sam's still chest. Dean finds his last reserves of strength and lunges forward, knocking Dad back. Dean resumes his position, fingers knotted, elbows locked, and he pushes down. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...

"Fuck you, Sam. Open your goddamn eyes and breathe!"

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...

"You hear me, bitch? Stop messing around!"

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one...

"Dean," Dad says.

"No. You shut up," Dean spits back.

Dean keep going, and going, and going, and going. He doesn't know how long it's been since they fell into the lake, since Sam vanished under the water, since Dean pulled him back up, until he starts breathing again. Sam shudders suddenly, chest convulsing, mouth gaping open and closed like a fish. Dean quickly flips him onto his side and rubs his back as a seemingly endless amount of sludgy water comes spilling from Sam's mouth.

He's breathing on his own once he's finished, gasping in great lungfuls of air, too spent to even open his eyes. Dean pulls him up, the kid's heavy and drenched with water, grains of sand sticking to every bit of him. He sinks into Dean's chest, head flopping back into the crook of Dean's elbow, and he breathes.

Dean presses his face into Sam's wet hair, sand sticking to his nose and chin. He pats Sam's cheek, but he doesn't wake, just breathes and coughs, breathes and coughs. His lips are still blue, skin still whiter than white. Dean holds him tighter than he ever has, decides he might never let go. Dad is crawling, stumbling across the sand towards them, eyes red and mouth hanging open. He places a hand over Sam's chest and drops his head with a heavy sigh. Dean had never seen his dad look so scared. And he's never felt such terror in his life, not since the night his mother died.

He stops a moment and feels as Sam's chest swells and deflates under him. In and out, in and out, in and out.

* * *

Thanks for reading this procrastination fic! Until the next time :)


	2. The Children's Ward

I finished this days ago and forgot to post, oops! There should be one last part for this (but who knows? definitely not me) Thanks for putting up with my disorganisation!

* * *

The children's ward has fucking clowns painted on the walls. Not that Sam knows, he's been more than out of it since he started breathing again, three whole days ago. Dean watches the tube under Sam's nose fog up as he breathes out, then in, then out again. He leans over and adjust the blankets, moving the corner an inch higher like it'll actually make a difference.

Early stages of hypothermia. A moderate coma due to the lack of oxygen to Sam's brain. A high risk of pneumonia. The doctor, who only makes an appearance for all of ten minutes each day, tells him that brain damage of some kind is likely, but there's no knowing just how bad it'll be until Sam wakes up.

"Will he wake up?" Dean had dared to ask. Dad, meanwhile, hadn't said a single word.

"We're optimistic," the doctor had replied. "He's been in and out, responding to stimuli. All we can do is watch and wait."

It's quiet, with the clock ticking towards 6pm and the sky is getting darker. All six of the beds on the ward contain another sick kid, each with the a weary mother and father camped out beside. Dean's been sitting in the plastic chair at Sam's bedside long enough that he can't feel his ass cheeks anymore. He gets to his feet, stretches up high until he hears a soft crack in his spine, then makes a few quiet laps around the room in his socked-feet, heavy boots left abandoned under the chair.

One of the mothers snaps a glare in his direction, and it's sharp enough to send him out into the hallway for a moment. It's good to be out of the confines of the room, away from sick kids, it's like he can breathe a little clearer. He wanders along until he finds a vending machine, then scrapes the bottom of his pockets for enough pennies for a can of soda. Dad left to get a cup of coffee two hours ago and he still hasn't come back. Whatever. Dean can handle things without him. He always has.

He downs the soda and tosses the can into the trash can beside the vending machine. The room is still quiet when he returns - except for the soft voice of one mother reading _Hairy MacClary from Donaldson's Dairy_ to her six-year-old. Sam's still paler than milk, looking even smaller than he already is under the mountain of blankets, but at least there's no longer any sign of a blue tinge to his skin, at least he looks living.

 _Be prepared for the possibility of brain damage_. Dean thinks of his brother - his annoying, too damn _smart_ for his own good, jerk of a brother. He thinks of Sam opening his eyes, looking up at him and seeing no one different than a stranger. Or he thinks of Sam blank-eyed and bed-bound. Or seizing day after day after day. Those thoughts are more terrifying than any monster. Dean would rather take down a werewolf barehanded.

He shakes his head and rubs at his drooping eyes. He should never have read the damn pamphlets. _What is it like to live with a traumatic brain injury? And how can I help my loved one?_

Dean leans back, fits his spine into the curve of the plastic bedside chair. It's uncomfortable as hell, but he's barely shut his eyes in forty-eight hours and he can feel himself drifting. His head must loll because one second he's staring at the stupid paper clowns on the wall and the next he's jolting up, filled with a sickly feeling like he just tripped over. He glances at Sam. He's still breathing, soft and peaceful. He could just be sleeping, like Dean could wake him up with a prod to the side.

Visiting hours will be over soon, but his eyelids are drooping against his will, and no matter how hard he tries he can't keep them open.

* * *

Sammy's crying, has been for the two hours since he woke up. He hasn't said a word, just cried and cried and cried. Thing is, Sam's never been much of a crier, not in years, and Dean isn't sure anymore how to make it better. He brushes Sam's hair from his forehead and shushes him gently. The other kids are staring, the ones that are awake, and the littlest of the group has been set off in a fit of tears, too.

Dean checks his cell again. No missed call from Dad. No replies to any of his texts. He's tempted to call Bobby, or Pastor Jim, even Caleb. Anyone who might be better at handling this than he is. Besides, the nurses are getting suspicious about Dad's absence and it's only a matter of time before a call is made to the CPS. Sam is crying and Dad isn't here and Dean's about to go out of him mind.

There's a squelch of footsteps and a cold, wet hand on his shoulder. Dad, drenched from head to toe, takes the empty seat beside Dean.

"The nurses said he woke up," Dad whispers, glancing anxiously at Sam. "What did the doctor say?"

Dean's teeth grind together. "Where were you?" he spits. "Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"Dropped my phone at the bottom of the lake," Dad answers without looking at him, eyes locked on Sam's tear-stained face. "Don't worry about the job, I took care of it."

"Fuck the job!" Dean blurts, and a little kid across the room gasps. He leans closer to his father and lowers his voice. "Sammy needed you here. I needed - You were supposed to be here. With your son."

For a second, Dad actually looks startled. "I'm here now," he says sharply, and Sam hitches a heavy sob that sends him into a fit of coughing, which only makes him cry harder. He looks like a child, a real child, because Sam's never been one, not really. Neither of them have. Sam's always been the kid that didn't quite fit. The one who reluctantly hands his Dad bullets to load his gun, the kid that gets a knife set he never wanted for his birthday, the kid that's never in any school long enough to make any real friends. A kid that should never have been anywhere near a monster-infested lake in the first place.

"You gave up on him that night," Dean says. "You don't get to do that again."

"Dean - "

"No. Promise you ain't giving up on him again. Promise you'll stick around."

John sighs, fingers combing his wet hair away from where it has clung to his forehead. He leans forward, hand reaching for Sam, fingers gentle beneath the callouses and stubbed nails, but he stops himself as water drips from his skin to stain the bed sheets. "I'm not going anywhere," he finally says, and Dean does his best to believe him.

* * *

The doctors and nurses keeping repeating these words: _normal_ and _not uncommon_ and _to be expected_. They hold up picture cards and Sam sees a red apple, but he can't say it. He's trying really hard, Dean can tell, but it only results in frustrated tears. Dean isn't sure he can deal with _another_ several hours of crying.

"I think he's had enough," he says.

The therapist glances from Sam to Dean, then back again. "Would you like to stop for today, Sam?"

Sam shakes his head. Stubborn little bastard. The next card she holds up has a picture of a dog on it and Sam smiles the same smug smile he reserves for when he knows something clever.

"D- doh." He's cut off by a round of coughing, rough and deep enough in his lungs to leave him gasping. "Doh. Guh. Dog."

"Very good," the therapist says warmly. Sam glances at Dean, still wet-eyed but grinning.

It's been a week and the doctors smile and say Sam's making great progress, as if they didn't also sit through a painful five minutes of Sam trying to say the word _shoe_.

 _Expressive Aphasia_ is just a fancy way of saying that Sam doesn't know how to talk properly anymore. Dean thinks a lot about that night on the lake, and he thinks of how things might have been if he'd held his breath a little longer or swam a little deeper, then maybe he would have found Sam faster. Maybe Sam would be like he was before.

He's so lost in his thoughts, in the murkiness of that lake, that he doesn't notice the therapist leave. Sam is tapping clumsily at his knee.

"Y-you oh. Okay?" he asks, using more effort than he should have to, the muscles at his throat strain, lips parting and pressing together as he thinks.

"I'm fine, Sammy. Just thinking."

.

Dean, eventually, is sent back to the motel with instructions to sleep. At that point, he's not complaining. He's half-dead on his feet and probably smells like someone who's been wearing the same clothes for several days on end. He hits the pillow before he hits the shower, and within seconds he's deep enough asleep not to dream.

By the time he's slept a full twelve or so hours and washed the grime and sweat off his skin, he slips into cleaner clothes and heads back to the hospital. Dad is reading a newspaper by Sam's bed, which no longer contains Sam.

"He's having tests done," Dad says, before Dean can really start panicking. "They said it'll only take about an hour. Have you had anything to eat yet?"

Dean drops down onto the edge of Sam's bed. He watches his dad scan the headlines and sip coffee out of a paper cup, like it's any regular day.

"How can you act so normal?" Dean finally asks, because it's been on his mind a long time. Everyone is taking everything in their stride, including Sammy, and it makes Dean feel like he's going insane, like he's the only one here who sees just how fucked up everything is. Sam was so strong and witty and smart, and now he's... now he can't even spit out two syllables.

Dad raises his eyebrow and folds the newspaper up onto his lap.

"Why aren't you freaking out?" Dean asks, voice rising high enough to draw attention from the other occupants of the room. "Sam is - Sam has," he drops his voice to a whisper, " _brain damage."_

John sighs. "I know that, Dean."

"Then why are you acting like nothing bad happened?"

"Because it's my fault!" John hisses. "You were right. I gave up on him. I thought he was gone and there was nothing I could do. If I - maybe if I'd kept going or if I'd been quicker... he shouldn't have been on that lake in the first place. Neither of you should have, and that's on me. I have to be strong for Sammy, I owe at least that to him."

Dean can't speak. He's been thinking so much that his thoughts have spiralled in his head like a hurricane, about to tear everything apart and drive him insane. He should have known that the two of them have been stewing in the same guilt. It's the Winchester tradition, the family business: shoot evil in the face and squash down your feelings until you can't feel anything at all.

The two of them stare at each other, until John returns his gaze to the paper, like the whole conversation never happened.

"I don't know what to do," Dean admits.

Dad flips a page, gaze never lifting. "Just be his brother," he says. "That's all he wants."

* * *

Thanks for reading! I'll finish this story up as soon as I can, then I'll try to get back to my WIPs.


	3. The Salvage Yard

Hope you haven't forgotten about this one! There's a surprising amount of hurt!Dean, but plenty of the usual Sammy angst.

* * *

Bobby Singer's house, with its towers of dusty books and rusted out car husks in the back yard, is anything but festive. Not that he didn't try. There's a tree up in the living room that Bobby cut down himself, clumsily decorated by Sam. The paper snowflakes look like they went through a shredder, but the glitter glue adds enough sparkle that you could overlook it. The therapist said arts and crafts could help Sam's coordination and the creative aspect should lift his mood, so Dean had gone straight into town and bought just about everything on the little corner shelf of craft supplies in the supermarket. The coffee table is covered in a rainbow of coloured pencils, markers and paper. The mess of glue has dried globs of glitter smeared across the wood along with the bright paint fingerprints.

The whole house smells good enough to make Dean's stomach growl. He can hear Bobby pottering around the kitchen, humming to himself over a messy clang of pans. Dean leans back into the couch and sips at the only bottle of beer he's allowed, then glances over to the other end where Sam is perched and leaning forward, watching the television screen intently. The Grinch's heart is growing three sizes inside the flickering screen of Bobby's busted old TV set.

The kitchen is a mess, with gravy splashed on the floor and dirty pans piled on the cooker, but it smells great and the table is filled with more food than even Dean could eat. The three of them sit down and wait, the fourth seat pulled out and empty beside Sam. Sam reaches for the mashed potatoes, hand missing its mark by a few inches. Dean scoops up a spoonful and dollops it onto Sam's plate.

Sam scowls. "Sam c-can... it," he says slowly, chomping down on the 't'. The kid is one of few words these days, not that he can't speak, it just takes twice as long to spit out a sentence than it used to. To prove himself, Sam reaches for a spoonful of broccoli. He's concentrating hard, Dean can tell, with his tongue between his teeth and his cheeks flushing pink. His hand is shaking, hovering too high and too far to the right as he grips at air rather than the spoon. It takes a minute before he gets his fingers wrapped around the spoon's handle. His hand shakes so much that only one broccoli head reaches his plate, the rest of them abandoned in a trail across the table, but Sam seems pleased with himself nonetheless.

He turns his smug gaze onto Dean, who raises his hands in defeat. Just then, there's a low grumble rising outside and bright lights fill the window. Dean's up faster than Sam - but everyone is faster than Sam, and doesn't that just scare this shit out of Dean? - and he's out onto the porch in time to meet his dad. John's a little bruised, purple around one eye, a deep red cut on his lip, but he's there and he's smiling and he's alive.

John grunts as he's suddenly winded by an armful of Sam. The kid never used to hug their dad, could barely hold a regular conversation without it turning into a screaming match, but that was before. Now, the two of them are all smiles as Dad accompanies Sam back inside, a hand placed carefully at his back to steady him. Sam's not so great with stairs, on a bad day his balance can be about as good as Dean's when he's hammered.

Today's a good day.

Even Bobby and John are willing to be civil as they clink their beer bottles together in a toast. Dean lifts his own and finds it empty.

"Hey, can I get another one of these?" he asks.

"No," Dad and Bobby answer together.

"I'm not letting any seventeen-year-olds get drunk under my roof," Bobby says seriously, drowning his food in gravy.

"I'm eighteen in a month," Dean argues.

"And then you'll be only three years away from twenty-one," Dad says drily. "You got one beer, you're not having another. Ask again when it's legal."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, because everyone here cares so much about what's legal."

* * *

This day was going to come eventually. Dean knew it, even if he didn't want to admit it. It's been three months, and Dean's eighteen now, a real adult. Sticking around Bobby's for that long had him feeling like a chicken in a coop. Hunting is what he's good at, it's what he needs to do. Besides, Dad needs someone to watch his ass.

Dean is packing up his duffel, stuffing in the few items of clothing he has. It doesn't take long, and when he's done he drops to sit on the edge of the bed he's been occupying since November. He tidied the sheets this morning, pillows and covers perfectly stretched out and straightened like he'd never been there in the first place. On the other side of the room, Sam's bed sheets are still rumpled from sleep.

Dean sighs and rubs his hand across his eyes, hoping when he opens them again things might be a little better. Last night was a disaster and Dean's feeling worse than shit. His fingers find the charm around his neck and fiddle with the pointed angles, the metal is warm to touch.

Maybe this isn't a good idea. Sam's been having nightmares lately - and he wishes he knew what exactly is terrorising his little brother but it's not like Sam can tell him - so of course he wasn't going to be happy about Dean leaving. He's been ignoring Dean all day, or crying quietly to himself, and nothing Dean can say will cheer him up. He sighs and picks up his bag, hooking the strap over his shoulder.

Sam's on the couch, where he's been all day, eyes fixed on the TV even as Dean enters the room. He's a little pale, purple under his eyes from nights of disturbed sleep, still dressed in pyjamas. Dean stops in front of the TV, not moving even as Sam tries to crane his neck around him.

"Sammy," he says softly. "I'm going now."

Sam folds his harms across his middle. "N-nono. No."

"I gotta. I'm a hunter now, like a real one. I'll be back, promise."

Sam blinks for a long moment, throat working around the words that refuse to come out. "Shhhh." He purses his lips with frustration. "Sh-shoe."

Dean glances down. Nothing wrong with his boots. "Try that again, buddy."

" _Shoe."_

Sometimes Sam gets words mixed up. _Shoe_ might actually mean _I'll miss you_ or, more likely, _you're a jackass._ Dean steps over to the couch and drops down to his knees so he and Sam are on level. He pulls him into a hug, which Sam falls into, forgetting the grudge he's supposed to be holding. When they part, Sam is crying. He shoves Dean roughly in the shoulder and says again, "Shoe."

Dean ruffles his hair as he gets to his feet. Dad is lingering in the kitchen doorway, waiting.

The next night Dean is running blind through some woods in the middle of fucking nowhere. He can't see anything, not even the branches scratching at his face. The woods cling onto him, slow him down and hold him back, but he runs and runs and runs. His flashlight is smashed to pieces at the bottom of a rocky hill about half a mile back, but he's still got a hold on his pistol.

He can hear it, tracing his steps, the raspy snuffle of it catching his scent. Dean needs Dad, he can't do this alone, but he doesn't remember when he last saw him, doesn't know what happened to him.

It's close, he can hear twigs snapping under its feet. Dean stops and drops to a crouch, gun aimed into the darkness. He only has six bullets left and he can't see worth a damn. There's a loud _snap_ right behind him, and he can feel hot breath on the back of his neck. He spins around, pistol aimed, but his hand is knocked to the side and his weapon disappears into the darkness.

He runs. He makes it only a few feet before his legs go out from under him, a sharp tear goes through his left calf that has him screaming. He can feel its jaws around his leg, can feel its hot saliva drooling across his skin. Any second now it's jaws will snap together and his leg will be gone, he knows it.

Shoe.

He doesn't think, just rips his boot from his right foot and slams it into the creatures head. It shrieks, losing its grip on him, scuttling back a few steps with a pitiful whine that quickly turns fearsome. Dean crawls, hands splayed out in the leaf-covered floor of the forest, and he almost cries when his fingers touch something hard and metal. He grabs the pistol and swings it around, shooting blindly at the sound.

The forest falls silent, and Dean takes a deep breath.

* * *

It's happened a few times now, and each is more painful than the last. Sam can't sleep, refuses to go upstairs to bed no matter how many times Bobby pesters him about it. He keeps seeing it replaying his mind, like the _Metallica_ tape Dean overplayed until it just repeated the same verse over and over. He can see it, clear as day, as if it's happening right in front of him.

It's dark, and Dean is running, and something grabs his leg, until Dean uses his shoe to fend it off. That's were it stops. Sam doesn't know what happens next.

He gets up off the couch and walks over to Bobby's desk. Bobby glances up from the giant book he's reading, raising his eyebrow when Sam points to the phone.

"Dean," Sam says. He's tried so many times just to explain, but what sounds like _I think Dean's in danger you have to do something_ to Sam just comes out as a string of stuttering and nonsense to everyone else.

"It's late where they are," Bobby says. "Either they're busy or asleep."

Sam wants to yank his hair out of his scalp, he wants to hit something, preferably Bobby, but that'll just get him manhandled upstairs like the other times Sam has seriously lost his temper lately. He settles for smacking the surface of the desk, which is enough to make Bobby really pay attention.

"If I call, will you go to bed?"

Sam nods hurriedly.

Sighing, Bobby picks up the phone and punches in Dad's number. He watches Sam while it rings, one eyebrow raised under his baseball cap.

"John, Sam's been a little worried so - " he says when Dad answers, but he's quickly cut off, eyes widening. "Is he okay?" he asks.

Sam's breath catches in his throat.

"Jesus. Did any of the venom get in there?... Aw hell. You need to bring him back right away... Okay, I'll get everything ready. Be as quick as you can."

Then, he hangs up, getting to his feet and striding straight to the basement door. Sam tries to keep up, but his legs are a little shaky and he thinks he might keel over any second. Bobby turns abruptly and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Dean's hurt, but he's coming back here and I'll fix him up," he says, sounding anything but confident. The smile he's wearing is clearly for Sam's sake. "Why don't you head on up to bed and they'll be back when you wake up."

"Nnno," Sam snaps. He doesn't have a voice anymore, but he's not stupid. Why does everyone talk to him like he can't understand basic English? Even Dean, of all people.

" _Sam."_

 _I'm not a fucking child, I'm not an idiot, I can handle this_ comes out as, "Child, ah, no no no. Id-id. Donut."

He's close to hyperventilating, face flushing closely under his skin as tears seep out and fall down his cheeks. Bobby sighs and drops a heavy hand onto Sam's shoulder. He squeezes gently.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he says. "I know you're still the same little smartass you always were, you just can't get the words out. Must be hard."

Sam nods, rubbing at his wet cheeks.

"Dean's hurt pretty bad, okay?" Bobby goes on. "But I'll do my best to get him better.

* * *

Dean is all floppy limbs and heavy weight, being carried between Bobby and Dad up the porch steps. Sam lingers in the doorway, he can barely breathe as they pass, he catches a glimpse of Dean's face. His eyes are half open and so bloodshot they look completely crimson, the veins all over his neck and face are popping out like blue rivers across a map, yellowed foam is dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

Sam can't help it, he starts crying. Since the accident - which he still can't remember - his emotions have been like balloons and the tiniest thing will make them go _pop_. He can feel himself building up to what Dean calls 'a total meltdown', but he doesn't care because Dean starts screaming.

"Hold him down!" Bobby barks at John. Sam can't see what they're doing, Dean's lying on the couch, but everyone else is crowded over him and all Sam can see is the top of Dean's face. His eyes are rolling around like they don't know how to fix on one thing, he screams again so Dad puts the corner of a towel between his teeth to bite on.

He's dying, Sam thinks. And there's nothing he can do to stop it. He knew it would happen, he should have done something, should have grabbed onto Dean tightly and not let him walk out the door. Sam can't move, his bare feet feel glued to the hardwood beneath, he's so frozen he struggles to suck in air. Dean cries through the gag and Sam can hear a child wailing, but it's not until Dad is striding towards him that Sam realises the noise is coming from his own mouth.

Dad hoists him up, despite the fact Sam's been too old to be carried in years. He's fourteen now, and maybe a little small for his age, but he hasn't been a child in a long time. Each step takes him further away from Dean, halfway up the stairs he can see that his brother isn't moving anymore. He sobs so much that his stomach aches, that he thinks he might throw up down his father's back.

John holds him tighter and cups his hand to the back of Sam's neck. Upstairs, he places Sam on his bed and shuts the door behind them.

"Calm down, Sam," he says, but Sam's well beyond taking commands at this point. Dad sighs and pushes Sam to lie down, then pulls the blanket up to his chin. Sam can feel tears slide down to his ears and drip onto the mattress.

"It's okay," Dad whispers, and Sam hasn't heard him speak so softly in a long time. "I won't lie, it got serious, we could have lost him." He brushes hair back from Sam's forehead. "He'll be okay, Sammy. Bobby fixed him up."

 _He isn't dead?_ Sam wants to ask, but what comes out of his mouth is, "Mmm D-da."

"He'll be just fine," Dad repeats firmly. "He'll be sore and sick for a little while, but he's not going anywhere. Go to sleep now."

Sam has wasted all his energy on crying, he can't help but do as he's told.

* * *

Sam wakes up before the sun has properly risen. The sky is a stretch of indigo to soft blue to bright pink. The clock sitting on the bedside table tells him it's six am. The house is silent. He's dizzy when he gets out of bed and nearly falls back onto the mattress, he has to grip Dean's headboard to keep himself upright. Dean's bed is empty, and the previous night comes crashing through his sleep-fogged brain.

He tries to run, but he's not very good at that anymore, and ends up stumbling out into the hallway and down the stairs. Dean's still on the couch, tucked under a wool quilt with his leg propped up on the arm of the chair. He's pale, but the blue veins are gone, and he's breathing in and out softly.

Sam tip toes over and sits down on the carpet beside him. He stays there, just listening to Dean breathe, until the sun's higher up in the sky. When Dean's cold fingers tap at his shoulder, Sam jumps. Dean looks up at him tiredly, eyes still bloodshot, but he manages a smile.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice is just a worn-out husk.

Dean just spent the night almost dying, and he asks how Sam is? Sam's tempted to punch him, but he reckons Dean's too fragile right now. He settles for hugging him instead.

"You saved my life," Dean whispers.

Sam leans back and blinks at him.

"Shoe," Dean says softly. "You warned me. How?"

Sam shrugs, because that's the only explanation he can give that will make sense.

"You knew," Dean presses. "You tried to tell me."

Sam focuses, but ends up stuttering nonsense. He tries again, "D-d. _Dream_."

"You dreamed it?" Dean asks. He's drifting off again, Sam can tell, his eyes are halfway closed but he's trying to keep them open. He focuses his gaze on Sam, hard. "Let's just keep this between us for now, 'kay? Don't tell anyone else."

* * *

This was supposed to be the final chapter but it doesn't feel finished. I wrote this ages ago and didn't post it because I didn't know how to end it. It was supposed to be a simple one shot, then it became a three-shot, then Sam's visions popped outta nowhere and decided there's more to the story. I'm going to mark this as 'complete', but I have a feeling we might see this version of Sam and Dean again when they're both a little older in a sort-of sequel. I'll get back to them once I'm free of my reversebang (I post in 6 days and I'm not even halfway done help)

Please pray to the fanfiction gods that I finish my big bang on time.


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